Sunday, November 11, 2007
Grandpa's Garden
There is a weed in Grandpa’s garden.
I tended to it. Now the gate is locked.
There is still a weed in Grandpa’s garden.
I tended to it. Now the gate is locked.
There is still a weed in Grandpa’s garden.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Empty Eyes of a Dreamer
His eyes are old and he’s only twenty one. Such beautiful eyes he could have, if only... I remember when his eyes were beautiful. Such beautiful eyes they were; an azure blue. They held the dreams of a prince. But those dreams have turned to nightmares; demons scratching and clawing at the walls of his mind. He is now a vessel; a sad host of horrible orchestrated screams.
Monday, October 29, 2007
I Once Was Navajo
His face is a weathered, leathery brown, and like every face it is decorated with tools: eyes to see, ears to hear, a mouth to speak, and a nose to smell. The function of these tools is universal to humankind. But when his tools see the art of God, hear the whisper of the wind, taste the vegetation, or smell the dryness of the desert, what is communicated to him carries a more significant message than what this American city boy could ever understand. He is Navajo, and I am an American boy trying to understand his way.
The air is dry, but rather chilly. Even with three layers of clothing the desert air of Arizona causes my body to shiver for warmth. My hands are throbbing with pain. Several times my knuckles scrape against the bark of the log that will aid in providing warmth, once added to the fire. I watch as Mark Charles, our Navajo leader, swiftly with ease flings the shell of bark from his log, much like a magician pulls a cloth from a heavily set table. The bark must be pulled from the log to decrease the amount of smoke released through the ceiling hole of the Hogan, or else we would find ourselves waking to a monstrous black fog.
His silhouette is framed by the entrance to the Hogan. The sun is rising. The sleep is still heavy in my eyes and the image before me seems more appropriate in a dream, but I am awake. I can feel the chill from the early morning desert breeze and the sharp pain in my lower back from lying on the hard dirt floor. The tangerine sky fills the gap between his elbow and torso and repeatedly increases and decreases as he exhales and inhales with each murmur. My ear doesn’t catch the words of the black figure, but I know they are words to our creator. This is why the Hogan faces the east - to pray.
The dog has no name or collar. In my mind he is a stray. He slowly approaches Mark. His head is bowed and each step is soft, much like a slave approaching his master. Mark acknowledges the dog’s presence, and then waves his hand with a simple flick of the wrist. The dog leaves without reaction, and without any look of rejection. He’s simply not needed at this moment.
Their eyes are deep with fear as they retreat as a clump to the furthest corner of the pen. If they had hands they would be clutching to one another. Stanley slowly enters their home. To avoid eye contact he keeps his head low and his attention focused on adjusting the lasso. With a deep breath he focuses on the task at hand. He makes eye contact with a small lamb, flings the lasso into the air with little effort. The lasso finds its landing around the neck of the meek mammal. With a quick tug the necklaces tightens to a choker. The small lamb, kicking its powder-puff legs, struggles for freedom against the oppressor. But Stanley’s demeanor and aura is far from an oppressor. He slowly and tenderly tugs the lamb into his arms only using a parity of force to the lambs restrains.
The once pure white wool is stained with the blood of its container. The silence of the observers is eternally disturbed by the subtle shearing of the wool and murmurs of the participants. It is a sacred process; slaughtering a lamb.
The air is dry, but rather chilly. Even with three layers of clothing the desert air of Arizona causes my body to shiver for warmth. My hands are throbbing with pain. Several times my knuckles scrape against the bark of the log that will aid in providing warmth, once added to the fire. I watch as Mark Charles, our Navajo leader, swiftly with ease flings the shell of bark from his log, much like a magician pulls a cloth from a heavily set table. The bark must be pulled from the log to decrease the amount of smoke released through the ceiling hole of the Hogan, or else we would find ourselves waking to a monstrous black fog.
His silhouette is framed by the entrance to the Hogan. The sun is rising. The sleep is still heavy in my eyes and the image before me seems more appropriate in a dream, but I am awake. I can feel the chill from the early morning desert breeze and the sharp pain in my lower back from lying on the hard dirt floor. The tangerine sky fills the gap between his elbow and torso and repeatedly increases and decreases as he exhales and inhales with each murmur. My ear doesn’t catch the words of the black figure, but I know they are words to our creator. This is why the Hogan faces the east - to pray.
The dog has no name or collar. In my mind he is a stray. He slowly approaches Mark. His head is bowed and each step is soft, much like a slave approaching his master. Mark acknowledges the dog’s presence, and then waves his hand with a simple flick of the wrist. The dog leaves without reaction, and without any look of rejection. He’s simply not needed at this moment.
Their eyes are deep with fear as they retreat as a clump to the furthest corner of the pen. If they had hands they would be clutching to one another. Stanley slowly enters their home. To avoid eye contact he keeps his head low and his attention focused on adjusting the lasso. With a deep breath he focuses on the task at hand. He makes eye contact with a small lamb, flings the lasso into the air with little effort. The lasso finds its landing around the neck of the meek mammal. With a quick tug the necklaces tightens to a choker. The small lamb, kicking its powder-puff legs, struggles for freedom against the oppressor. But Stanley’s demeanor and aura is far from an oppressor. He slowly and tenderly tugs the lamb into his arms only using a parity of force to the lambs restrains.
The once pure white wool is stained with the blood of its container. The silence of the observers is eternally disturbed by the subtle shearing of the wool and murmurs of the participants. It is a sacred process; slaughtering a lamb.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
SOFT
At rise: An old abandoned house. Lights are dim. A portrait of an elderly couple hangs above the mantel. Soft stands staring up at the portrait. He checks his watch. Then crosses sitting on the last stair. On the second to last stair lies a bundle of flowers. He waits staring at the portrait. Eventually Ali enters on her cell. She doesn’t notice Soft. She walks to the mantel and begins to pull out candles.
Ali: Look I’m at the old McCalister place. No, I’ll talk to you later. Because I’d prefer to have this conversation face-to-face. I know I brought it up. No. Because I’m spending the rest of the night with a friend. Yes. Marcus. No. … Hello? Marcus? Bastard.
Ali hangs up. Crosses to place a candle on the opposite side of the room. She notices Soft.
Ali: Christ.
Soft: Where?
Ali: Sorry. I know… I thought you waited in your car til you saw light.
Soft: You doubt my courage.
Ali: Don't flatter yourself it's obnoxious.
Soft: Conversation revolved around him again?
Ali begins to set up candles. She tosses a couple to Soft.
Ali: When doesn’t it? Even the day before I leave he can’t talk about us. Catch. Instead, he goes into detail about how he's going to decorate his dorm room in Dylan and Lennon with a splash of the Playboy bunnies.
Soft: Hopefully the porn was an attempt at humor.
Ali: No he's serious; showed me the calendar.
Soft: What'd you say?
Ali: Nothing you’d approve. What’s with the flowers, huh? Getting all sweet and sentimental before I leave?
Soft: What?
Ali: The flowers?
Ali crosses to the stairs.
Soft: Yeah…um…I bought them from Julie’s. They’re for you. Pink Sapphire…That’s the color.
Ali: Wow, Marcus hasn’t even gifted me with flowers. I’m impressed; maybe I should be dating you?
Soft: um…well…They’re a…um…from my family. I thought…we thought it would be a kind gesture. Just a friendly gesture.
Ali: From your family, huh?
Soft: Yeah.
Ali: You’re too sweet, Soft.
Soft: Don’t worry about it.
Ali: Even attached a Bible verse.
Soft: Yeah. It’s your favorite.
Ali: My favorite?
Soft: Well maybe not your favorite, but you…you mentioned you liked it. During…um…last summer. Over by the window. We were talking about the possibility of you going to…
Ali: When you tried to convert me. Yes.
Soft: Yeah…when I tried to…convert you. Sure.
Ali: You did that nervous mumble thing throughout the entire conversation. (exaggerated nervous mumbling)Jesus loves you. Jesus wants your soul. Yay, Jesus.
Soft: I don’t remember that part, but okay.
Ali: It was cute. Also the same night you convinced me to date the prick.
Soft: Yeah. I…I’m sorry about that. So the relationship is…is bad?
Ali: I spent three hours with him today. Two hours consisted of him trying to get in my pants, the other hour, which should have been spent talking about the whole leaving for college thing, was spent watching him drool over his playboy calendar previously mentioned. So, no. The relationship is worse than bad. I’m positive there’s a more deserving title to give him than prick. But to avoid getting chastised for my foul and coarse mouth I’ll restrain myself.
Soft: I and Jesus thank you.
Ali: (amused) I’m sure the both of you do.
Soft: So are you thinking about…I don’t know…calling it off or…um…breaking up…whatever you call it?
Ali: I don’t know. What do you think I should do? You always seem to be my great relationship consultant. What do you say?
Soft: I don’t know. I usually give bad advice. Look at the mess you’re in now.
Ali: Good point. But it hasn’t stopped me in the past. Lead me to another mess, sansei.
Soft: Well…um…I don’t know…let’s say you call off the relationship; I mean it doesn’t seem…healthy. Then…I don’t know…um…What about being single for awhile?
Ali: Soft. I’ve never been single.
Soft: Well, what about dating someone different from the other guys?
Ali: How so?
Soft: I don’t know. What about waiting to see who you meet in college?
Ali. No. I don’t wanna go through that awkward get to know you stage, again.
Soft: So…someone you already know?
Ali: Who, Soft?
Ali’s cell vibrates.
Soft: I…um…I don’t know. Ali: Damn it
Ali: What? Well you shouldn’t have hung up. No. Because I wanna spend the rest of the night at the McCalister place. No.
Soft waits patiently. He walks over to the portrait.
Ali: Okay. I can do that. It’s on 8th street. 522. Yes.
Soft: The woman, she has your eyes.
Ali: What, Soft? (To phone) What?
Soft: The woman, she's pretty.
Ali: What? Christ, enunciate.
Soft: Don’t say that please.
Ali: (To Soft) I’m sorry.
Soft: I just… I said she’s pretty. The woman in the portrait.
Ali: Yeah, she’s cute. (To phone) What? Soft? Um…She’s a friend. You don’t need to meet her. I’ve told you about her. No, Marcus.
Ali hangs up cell.
Ali: Shit.
Soft: Everything okay?
Ali: He’s coming.
Soft: I should probably go then.
Ali: Soft, don’t. Stay.
Soft: If he’s coming you don’t want me around. I’ll leave…and if you want just call me later.
Ali: I’m sorry. I should’ve told him about you.
Soft: And that I’m a man, not a girl.
Ali: Soft, you’ve never been a man. A boy, yes. But a man, no.
Soft: I still come here on Friday nights. Even when you’re out with Marcus.
Ali: Alone?
Soft: Yes, alone.
Ali: I’m impressed, so you’re a man, whatever. Though I pity you for not finding something else to do.
Soft: I like it here. I can't not come. Heck, that first Friday without you, I think I was even sort of hoping I’d see something. Like the first time we came here…as kids.
Ali: You were so scared. I practically drug you in here. (beat) I thought you quit believing in ghosts.
Soft: I did.
Ali: Then why the change of mind?
Soft: I don’t know. I just…I mean…isn’t it obvious? I wanted to have some…impressive story…or something to tell you…to make me seem…I don’t know.
Ali: Do you?
Soft: What?
Ali: An impressive story?
Soft: No.
Ali: Then make one up. Impress me.
Soft: It’s late. You need to talk to Marcus. I’ll go.
Ali: Marcus won’t come in here. He’ll call my cell, honk his horn, and wait for me to come running out to his car.
Soft: What about meeting me? He won’t come in to meet me?
Ali: If he does… Soft, tomorrow I go to college. And in a few months the relationship with Marcus will have ended…and honestly…I’m afraid ours might end…if… Tell me your ghost story please.
Soft: It’s not really a ghost story.
Ali: So something did happen.
Soft: Yeah, something happened. I just… I can’t.
Ali: Why?
Soft: Fear of what it will do to our relationship… friendship.
Ali: Soft, if either of us where to fuck this friendship up, it would be me.
Soft: True. Once I tell you, and you’ve cracked your jokes, and…and…
Ali: I won’t. I promise.
(She pinky swears. Soft accepts.)
Soft: Okay. I was sitting on the stairs and just looking around the room, at the windows, the floor, the portrait. Just looking.
Ali’s cell vibrates. She pulls it out and hangs up.
Soft: I remember being chilly and…
Ali’s cell vibrates again. She lets it vibrate.
Soft: It’s probably Marcus. You should answer it.
Ali: I need you to finish.
The cell continues to vibrate.
Soft: It’s your last night. You need to work things out before you leave. Answer the phone. Please.
The phone continues to vibrate. Ali flips open the phone.
Ali: I’ll be there in a minute.
Ali hangs up.
Ali: You were looking around the room and it was chilly.
Soft: I was looking around the room and it was chilly. And it came slowly at first, but then… I could see you. And hear you. On the windowsill, by the mantel, on the stairs, in the portrait. I came expecting to see a ghost. But this house is the ghost. This house is us.
Ali: Soft…
Soft: I look at that window and remember how I mumbled my faith to you, and you brashly disagreed. Those stairs. I remember you talking about Marcus, Frank, Rick, Jake, Jimmy, I don’t know, but every single one I said yes, yes date them, because maybe one day, finally I’d be left, or I’d be what you were “into.” And I could say, “yes date me.” Love me. Cause, Ali, I love you, as freakishly and perverse as it sounds, I’m obsessed. And with that, I say, and please forgive me heavenly father, but “Fuck Marcus.”
Ali: You should curse more often. You’re rather attractive when you curse.
Soft: Don’t. You said you wouldn’t.
Ali: I’m not.
A car honks.
Ali: I should probably go. Soft, if I end this thing with Marcus, what should I do?
Soft: What do you mean?
Ali: You’re my great relationship consultant, right? What should I do?
Soft: Well…um…I know this really great guy…um…he’s kind of a puss, but you might like him.
Ali: Really? What’s his name?
Soft: Soft.
Lights dim. The end.
Ali: Look I’m at the old McCalister place. No, I’ll talk to you later. Because I’d prefer to have this conversation face-to-face. I know I brought it up. No. Because I’m spending the rest of the night with a friend. Yes. Marcus. No. … Hello? Marcus? Bastard.
Ali hangs up. Crosses to place a candle on the opposite side of the room. She notices Soft.
Ali: Christ.
Soft: Where?
Ali: Sorry. I know… I thought you waited in your car til you saw light.
Soft: You doubt my courage.
Ali: Don't flatter yourself it's obnoxious.
Soft: Conversation revolved around him again?
Ali begins to set up candles. She tosses a couple to Soft.
Ali: When doesn’t it? Even the day before I leave he can’t talk about us. Catch. Instead, he goes into detail about how he's going to decorate his dorm room in Dylan and Lennon with a splash of the Playboy bunnies.
Soft: Hopefully the porn was an attempt at humor.
Ali: No he's serious; showed me the calendar.
Soft: What'd you say?
Ali: Nothing you’d approve. What’s with the flowers, huh? Getting all sweet and sentimental before I leave?
Soft: What?
Ali: The flowers?
Ali crosses to the stairs.
Soft: Yeah…um…I bought them from Julie’s. They’re for you. Pink Sapphire…That’s the color.
Ali: Wow, Marcus hasn’t even gifted me with flowers. I’m impressed; maybe I should be dating you?
Soft: um…well…They’re a…um…from my family. I thought…we thought it would be a kind gesture. Just a friendly gesture.
Ali: From your family, huh?
Soft: Yeah.
Ali: You’re too sweet, Soft.
Soft: Don’t worry about it.
Ali: Even attached a Bible verse.
Soft: Yeah. It’s your favorite.
Ali: My favorite?
Soft: Well maybe not your favorite, but you…you mentioned you liked it. During…um…last summer. Over by the window. We were talking about the possibility of you going to…
Ali: When you tried to convert me. Yes.
Soft: Yeah…when I tried to…convert you. Sure.
Ali: You did that nervous mumble thing throughout the entire conversation. (exaggerated nervous mumbling)Jesus loves you. Jesus wants your soul. Yay, Jesus.
Soft: I don’t remember that part, but okay.
Ali: It was cute. Also the same night you convinced me to date the prick.
Soft: Yeah. I…I’m sorry about that. So the relationship is…is bad?
Ali: I spent three hours with him today. Two hours consisted of him trying to get in my pants, the other hour, which should have been spent talking about the whole leaving for college thing, was spent watching him drool over his playboy calendar previously mentioned. So, no. The relationship is worse than bad. I’m positive there’s a more deserving title to give him than prick. But to avoid getting chastised for my foul and coarse mouth I’ll restrain myself.
Soft: I and Jesus thank you.
Ali: (amused) I’m sure the both of you do.
Soft: So are you thinking about…I don’t know…calling it off or…um…breaking up…whatever you call it?
Ali: I don’t know. What do you think I should do? You always seem to be my great relationship consultant. What do you say?
Soft: I don’t know. I usually give bad advice. Look at the mess you’re in now.
Ali: Good point. But it hasn’t stopped me in the past. Lead me to another mess, sansei.
Soft: Well…um…I don’t know…let’s say you call off the relationship; I mean it doesn’t seem…healthy. Then…I don’t know…um…What about being single for awhile?
Ali: Soft. I’ve never been single.
Soft: Well, what about dating someone different from the other guys?
Ali: How so?
Soft: I don’t know. What about waiting to see who you meet in college?
Ali. No. I don’t wanna go through that awkward get to know you stage, again.
Soft: So…someone you already know?
Ali: Who, Soft?
Ali’s cell vibrates.
Soft: I…um…I don’t know. Ali: Damn it
Ali: What? Well you shouldn’t have hung up. No. Because I wanna spend the rest of the night at the McCalister place. No.
Soft waits patiently. He walks over to the portrait.
Ali: Okay. I can do that. It’s on 8th street. 522. Yes.
Soft: The woman, she has your eyes.
Ali: What, Soft? (To phone) What?
Soft: The woman, she's pretty.
Ali: What? Christ, enunciate.
Soft: Don’t say that please.
Ali: (To Soft) I’m sorry.
Soft: I just… I said she’s pretty. The woman in the portrait.
Ali: Yeah, she’s cute. (To phone) What? Soft? Um…She’s a friend. You don’t need to meet her. I’ve told you about her. No, Marcus.
Ali hangs up cell.
Ali: Shit.
Soft: Everything okay?
Ali: He’s coming.
Soft: I should probably go then.
Ali: Soft, don’t. Stay.
Soft: If he’s coming you don’t want me around. I’ll leave…and if you want just call me later.
Ali: I’m sorry. I should’ve told him about you.
Soft: And that I’m a man, not a girl.
Ali: Soft, you’ve never been a man. A boy, yes. But a man, no.
Soft: I still come here on Friday nights. Even when you’re out with Marcus.
Ali: Alone?
Soft: Yes, alone.
Ali: I’m impressed, so you’re a man, whatever. Though I pity you for not finding something else to do.
Soft: I like it here. I can't not come. Heck, that first Friday without you, I think I was even sort of hoping I’d see something. Like the first time we came here…as kids.
Ali: You were so scared. I practically drug you in here. (beat) I thought you quit believing in ghosts.
Soft: I did.
Ali: Then why the change of mind?
Soft: I don’t know. I just…I mean…isn’t it obvious? I wanted to have some…impressive story…or something to tell you…to make me seem…I don’t know.
Ali: Do you?
Soft: What?
Ali: An impressive story?
Soft: No.
Ali: Then make one up. Impress me.
Soft: It’s late. You need to talk to Marcus. I’ll go.
Ali: Marcus won’t come in here. He’ll call my cell, honk his horn, and wait for me to come running out to his car.
Soft: What about meeting me? He won’t come in to meet me?
Ali: If he does… Soft, tomorrow I go to college. And in a few months the relationship with Marcus will have ended…and honestly…I’m afraid ours might end…if… Tell me your ghost story please.
Soft: It’s not really a ghost story.
Ali: So something did happen.
Soft: Yeah, something happened. I just… I can’t.
Ali: Why?
Soft: Fear of what it will do to our relationship… friendship.
Ali: Soft, if either of us where to fuck this friendship up, it would be me.
Soft: True. Once I tell you, and you’ve cracked your jokes, and…and…
Ali: I won’t. I promise.
(She pinky swears. Soft accepts.)
Soft: Okay. I was sitting on the stairs and just looking around the room, at the windows, the floor, the portrait. Just looking.
Ali’s cell vibrates. She pulls it out and hangs up.
Soft: I remember being chilly and…
Ali’s cell vibrates again. She lets it vibrate.
Soft: It’s probably Marcus. You should answer it.
Ali: I need you to finish.
The cell continues to vibrate.
Soft: It’s your last night. You need to work things out before you leave. Answer the phone. Please.
The phone continues to vibrate. Ali flips open the phone.
Ali: I’ll be there in a minute.
Ali hangs up.
Ali: You were looking around the room and it was chilly.
Soft: I was looking around the room and it was chilly. And it came slowly at first, but then… I could see you. And hear you. On the windowsill, by the mantel, on the stairs, in the portrait. I came expecting to see a ghost. But this house is the ghost. This house is us.
Ali: Soft…
Soft: I look at that window and remember how I mumbled my faith to you, and you brashly disagreed. Those stairs. I remember you talking about Marcus, Frank, Rick, Jake, Jimmy, I don’t know, but every single one I said yes, yes date them, because maybe one day, finally I’d be left, or I’d be what you were “into.” And I could say, “yes date me.” Love me. Cause, Ali, I love you, as freakishly and perverse as it sounds, I’m obsessed. And with that, I say, and please forgive me heavenly father, but “Fuck Marcus.”
Ali: You should curse more often. You’re rather attractive when you curse.
Soft: Don’t. You said you wouldn’t.
Ali: I’m not.
A car honks.
Ali: I should probably go. Soft, if I end this thing with Marcus, what should I do?
Soft: What do you mean?
Ali: You’re my great relationship consultant, right? What should I do?
Soft: Well…um…I know this really great guy…um…he’s kind of a puss, but you might like him.
Ali: Really? What’s his name?
Soft: Soft.
Lights dim. The end.
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